


Clean Cuts

by misura



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-21 17:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: Erik spends a week in Wakanda before his ritual combat with T'Challa.





	Clean Cuts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sorori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorori/gifts).



T'Challa slips away from a tense council meeting to watch Erik at weapons practice.

Nothing has been decided; nothing _will_ be decided, until after the challenge is over and done with, although of course everyone assures him that they are convinced of his victory, that Erik, or N'Jadaka, or Killmonger, or whatever name Erik chooses to go by, does not stand a chance.

T'Challa wants to agree with them.

T'Challa wants to have come here on a mission of mercy as much as peace, to watch Erik skewer an imaginary opponent and think to himself, _that could never be me_. As the Black Panther, suited up, it would be true.

As T'Challa, son of T'Chaka, stripped of the powers of the Black Panther, facing his long-lost cousin, T'Challa is less sure. There's a grace to Erik's movements, a confidence born of experience. T'Challa might almost believe that Erik has been blessed already, that what he sees is not just the result of a man wholly dedicating himself to bringing about the death of his enemies, but that he is looking at the future defender of Wakanda, the Black Panther come again, before its time.

( _"It is time,"_ T'Chaka had told him, gently, and T'Challa had questioned nothing, had never thought to link his own ascension to the anniversary of his uncle's disappearance. He had allowed the Heart-Shaped Herb to take him, and he had put on the suit, and he had felt proud.)

"You scared yet, or did you just think you'd come and check out all my moves, try and get an edge that way?" Erik asks. There's a very thin sheen of sweat on his upper body. " 'cause I got plenty more."

"Eh," says T'Challa, trying to look away. "I was only taking a walk to clear my head."

"That so?" Erik raises one of his swords. "Well, cheer up. Won't be long now before I cut it clean off. Betcha that's gonna clear it right up."

T'Challa does not point out that victory in ritual combat comes by death or yield. He can imagine himself doing many things, but he knows that he will never yield. He is not M'Baku. If he cannot be king and Black Panther, the world will move on without him, as it has without his father.

Whether or not he can get Erik to yield, T'Challa does not yet know. He hopes. He prays. He feels, very strongly, that it would be right, and fair, that there are things he owes Erik that he cannot give to a dead man.

T'Challa does not imagine that Erik is going to make it easy, though.

"What'sa matter, coz? Cat got your tongue?" Erik grins at him.

T'Challa sighs. "To be king is not this great and easy thing you think it is. You walk in here, and you think that simply because you know how to kill that you know how to rule. That you have the right."

"Oh, I got the right all right," Erik says. " 'course, that ain't why I'm gonna kill you, but hey."

"Then why?" T'Challa asks. He does not know what he would have done, had Erik walked up to him in Busan, or anywhere else, and introduced himself. "We are not our fathers." He wants to believe that he would have been generous, and kind, and welcoming. "We need not repeat their mistakes."

"Mistakes?" Erik repeats. "Only mistake my daddy made was the one got him killed."

T'Challa closes his eyes. He has no memories of his uncle, of N'Jobu. Few people mentioned him, after his disappearance. It seemed a matter of respect, of not reminding the king of the brother he had lost.

"And yet you would pursue this challenge, to bring about even more death," he says.

"You wanna give me the throne and the mantle of Black Panther right here, right now, ain't see nothing stopping you. Heck, you ask real nice, I might even promise to let you live. See how you like it out there, with none of your fancy tech to make you feel all high and mighty."

T'Challa shakes his head. There must be words, he thinks. Something he might say, to reach Erik, to make him see beyond his rage and hatred, to what is truly there, if only he would reach for it, accept it.

"Yeah, that's what I figured," Erik says. "So how 'bout this? You fight me, right here, right now. No ritual, no audience, no waterfalls and shit, just you and me. You win, you can talk to me about peace all you want. I win, you stop with all that shit."

"You do not stand a chance," T'Challa says, or starts saying - he's barely reached 'stand' before Erik takes a swipe at him. "I have not yet agreed to your terms."

Erik smirks. "You was gonna, so I figured, why wait?"

The garments a king wears in council are not best suited for battle. Still, T'Challa has the Black Panther's abilities. With a thought, he might have the suit as well, thanks to Shuri's genius.

If he needs to worry about anything, it is accidentally wounding Erik. This close to ritual combat, it would be unfortunate, nearly unforgivable - not that T'Challa expects Erik to feel the same.

T'Challa has seen the finest warriors in all of Wakanda train. Erik moves like them, but only in the sense that none of his movements are wasted. The Dora fight as a group, a team. One Dora Milaje might take on a small army by herself, but their true greatness lies in their ability to work together.

Erik's fighting style takes nothing into account except himself. Erik is a solo act, with no expectation of anyone or anything showing up to help him.

T'Challa imagines him as a fatherless boy, closing himself off from a world that has only seen fit to hurt him, day after day, blow after blow, taking away his mother, his father, his country.

( _"Show him who you are,"_ his mother had yelled, but that was in another battle, against a different opponent. Still, who is T'Challa to M'Baku but another king who has never travelled to Jabariland? Who can he be to Erik, except the son of the man who killed Erik's father?)

The world slows down as Erik's blade grazes T'Challa's cheek. It's a shallow cut, T'Challa barely even feels it, but it's first blood in a fight he should have been able to finish within a minute - a fight he possibly should not even have allowed to begin in the first place, only he told himself that Erik started it, and that he might as well finish it, to show Erik who he has committed himself to besting.

(So. Perhaps his mother's words do have a place here, after all.)

"Stop," T'Challa says, voice sharp.

Erik stops, looking as surprised as T'Challa feels, though it's anyone's guess whether it's at the injury or at his own obedience where he has never obeyed before.

It doesn't last long, of course.

"Whatsa matter? Can't stand seeing your own blood? Better get used to it, coz, cause I sure plan on spilling a whole lot more of it."

T'Challa realizes that he is as close to weeping in despair as he is to losing his temper. Neither seems advisable under the circumstances, but anger, at least, can be channeled into something productive.

He leaves the suit off, allowing Erik to see his face as T'Challa pulls the swords out of his hands one after the other, before tackling Erik to the floor, arms and legs pinned, immobilized for as long as it pleases T'Challa to keep him there.

The whole thing has taken perhaps five seconds. Erik's breathing fast, his body tense and rigid under T'Challa's own, like a spring that's wound too tight.

"Yield," T'Challa orders. It feels the safest thing to say.

"Nah," Erik says, struggling a little, testing. "What're you gonna do? Kill me?"

T'Challa trembles. The rage is still there. He wonders if this is how Erik feels all the time, if this is what has made Erik start killing and keep killing. "Yield. There is nothing you can do."

"That what you think?" This time, it's less of a struggle and more of a grinding motion that sends T'Challa's mind in a rather unwelcome direction.

He cannot imagine Erik is doing it on purpose, which means he has no one to blame for it but himself, his own imagination, his own decision to dodge another council session where nothing will get decided to come and look at Erik, half-naked and working up a sweat instead.

"Yield. I will not ask you again." T'Challa keeps his voice steady.

"Oh, I ain't yielding," Erik says. "I'm fine right here, thanks. How 'bout you? You nice and comfortable? Want to maybe let me have my arms and legs back again? I mean, ain't gonna be much fun when it's just you, lyin' there, is it?"

T'Challa considers getting up. It seems like the sensible course of action, and yet something in Erik's tone gives him pause. Erik is still only playing, of course; this is not a serious offer. They are cousins, and enemies, at least from Erik's point of view. In less than a week, they will face one another in ritual combat, to decide the future fate of Wakanda. T'Challa cannot afford to lose, or get distracted.

Erik strikes, more like a snake than a panther, leaving T'Challa the one with his back on the floor, staring up at Erik.

"Gotcha." Erik smiles, smug and proud, looking younger than T'Challa has ever seen him.

 _My cousin, long-lost and now returned to us,_ T'Challa thinks, trying to feel the sweet as well as the bitter, to find the part of himself that is kin to Erik, that can reach out and touch him, and not be turned away.

Erik kisses him, then, as if T'Challa has managed his miracle after all, and T'Challa kisses him back, tasting blood, yielding the only way he will permit himself to yield, hoping that it will be enough.


End file.
